The Act of Dying
by Megara79
Summary: Dying, she decided, was an act that left a lot to be desired - A post-Endgame story, set a few years after Voyagers return.
1. Dying

**Title: The Act of Dying  
Author: Megara79  
Series: Star Trek: Voyager  
Rating: K+  
Summary: Dying, she decided, was an act that left a lot to be desired - A post-Endgame strory, set a few years after Voyagers return.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Thanks to: Evil Shall Giggle, who's still made of awesome **

Dying, she decided, was an act that left a lot to be desired.

The initial process was the worst. The feeling of sharp metal slicing through her skin. The cut through underlying muscle. The blade of the knife rasping against a rib. The tip embedding itself in her right lung, collapsing it.

By the second stab, every nerve ending seemed to be on fire, the pain making her knees buckle and her already laboured breath hitch. She wanted to scream, but the developing pneumothorax made it difficult to draw her breath. A small, pathetic whimper escaped her instead. She heard the knife fall to the ground and the sound of footsteps running away as her knees gave out from under her. She hit the asphalt hard, and for one ridiculous moment, like there weren't more pressing matters to worry about, found herself hoping that the fall hadn't torn the dress she was wearing. It was brand new and he hadn't seen it yet. It was way too late for worrying, of course. The dress was already ruined by the crimson stains that slowly made their progress across the cream-coloured fabric.

She managed to half-roll, half-push herself up into a sitting position, and she leant her back heavily against the wall of the nearby building. Looking down, she briefly wondered where her left shoe was. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes trying to fight off her vanishing focus. _'There it is,'_ she thought when she opened her eyes again, seeing the high-heeled shoe on its side next to the knife. _'A knife?'_

'_Yes, of course a knife. You've been stabbed, remember?'_ She almost chuckled at her own stupidity.

Looking from the shoe to the knife, her eyes finally settled on her upper body. Her hand gently touched at the stab wound on her thorax. She flinched. The blood was warm and sticky, and she noted, with some alarm, that it kept trickling from the cut. The second stab had entered a little lower and to the left, and her concern grew as she realised it must have perforated her liver. The continuous oozing of blood confirmed her suspicions, and she couldn't help thinking that it was just her luck to get stabbed in one of the most vascular organs of the body. _'No point doing anything half-way. How very Janeway of me,'_ she thought sarcastically.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe and she tried pressing a hand over the wound in her chest, hoping that by sealing off the body cavity, her pneumothorax would stabilise, maybe even decrease. She quickly realised that the attempt was futile. Besides, wasn't the second wound more serious? After all, she could survive a collapsed lung. Bleeding to death? Not so much. The oncoming coldness that left her fingertips and toes numb rather carelessly informed her that her analysis of the situation was right. She twisted to her side and moved her hands to put pressure on the second wound, this time hoping to stem the blood loss.

She lay like that for a moment, the movement nearly exhausting her. She felt her heart beat like a furious drum, echoing in her ears as it desperately tried to supply her failing body with oxygen. Her breath came in small shallow gulps, and her entire body hurt. She momentarily contemplated the irony of the situation. She had survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant. She had lived through countless life-and-death situations, battling some of the galaxy's most dangerous species. She had beaten the odds and she'd made it home, only to be stabbed in an alleyway by a young boy whose reasons, she suspected, would never be known.

The attack had come out of nowhere.

She had been running late and had decided to hurry through the alley to get to the restaurant in time. Their wedding anniversary had been three weeks ago, but they'd both been too busy to celebrate it at the time. She'd been on Romulus on the actual day and he'd been working late every night the past two weeks grading exam papers. This was the first night they both had off since then, and she'd bought the dress in her lunch break. She'd commed him as she left the office, apologising profusely for leaving later than she'd promised. He'd laughed and told her he'd been quite aware when he married her that he was marrying a workaholic. He'd jokingly said that he loved her nonetheless and that their seven years in the Delta Quadrant had prepared him for this. She'd smiled, telling him that she'd find a way to make it up to him.

She'd walked through that same alley many times before. It was still light out and the connecting streets were bustling. She had no reason to worry. The boy had come out of nowhere, and he had moved so very fast. All she'd seen was a pair of haunted eyes and sandy blond hair. He hadn't threatened her, he hadn't asked for her valuables. He'd used his weapon swiftly and grabbed her purse before escaping.

She wanted to cry for help, but her body was refusing to follow orders. The coldness had moved from her toes and fingers and had settled in her entire body, and the pain was slowly ebbing away. She wanted to reach for her comm. badge only to remember that it was in her stolen purse. She coughed and the effort almost made her pass out.

She didn't hear the cry for help from the woman who first spotted her. She didn't feel the strong arms that lifted her onto the gurney or the tingle of the emergency transport to the hospital. She vaguely registered that someone was asking her questions.

"Please…" she managed. "Get my husband. He's waiting for me. I'm late." Another coughing fit claimed her as a calm voice told her not to worry; that the professor had been notified and was on his way. She briefly wondered if she'd given them his name or if they'd just recognised her.

She struggled to keep awake as doctors and nurses worked to stabilize her. The light in the room was too bright and she wanted to give in to the darkness that seemed so eager to envelope her from within. She heard someone say her name and she forced her eyes open. It took a moment for her to focus on the person who'd appeared by the biobed.

"Hey," she whispered as she recognised Chakotay's face.

"Hey," he whispered back, grabbing her hand.

"I didn't make it to the restaurant."

"I can see that."

"Do you like my dress?" she coughed. "It's a bit stained." She smiled weakly.

"I like the bra better," he joked, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking.

She gingerly lifted her hand towards her chest, and felt flesh and the smooth texture of her silk bra. "They cut the dress?" she asked.

"They had to," his voice faltered and she could see he was struggling.

The look on his face made Kathryn want to scream. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to leave him.

"Just hang on," he said, kissing her forehead.

"I love you," she breathed in return.

"Don't say that," he answered, recognising her need to say goodbye.

"I have to."

"Kathryn, _please_…"

"Sir, you need to step outside now." The voice, the same one that had told Kathryn Chakotay was on his way, was now directed at her husband. She heard him protest, but felt his hand slip from hers nonetheless. It became increasingly difficult to keep the darkness at bay. The pain was completely gone now, and all she could think of was how desperately tired she was. She faintly heard him call out her name before she lost her fight and darkness surrounded her.

TBC


	2. Losing someone

Losing someone, he decided, was an act that left a lot to be desired.

He didn't know what was worse. The sound of the monitor telling him her heart had stopped beating. The jerk of her body as volts of electricity tried to coerce it back to action. The devouring feeling of helplessness that washed over him as he watched endless tricorders scanning her. The despair of knowing that he might have to leave the hospital without her as a nurse guided him from the room.

By the time he reached the corridor, the reality of the situation had hit him like a ton of bricks, the pain making his knees buckle and his already laboured breath hitch. He wanted to scream, but the tightness in his chest made it difficult to get enough air. A quiet, pathetic sob escaped him instead. He heard the nurse tell him the damage was extensive, and the sound of his own voice whispering Kathryn's name as his knees gave out from under him. He fell into a nearby chair and for a deluded moment, as if the doctors in this hospital didn't have a clue what they were doing, contemplated asking the nurse to contact _Voyager_'s EMH for a second opinion; his acerbic tone alone surely enough to wake Kathryn up. _'Don't be an idiot,'_ he told himself. She was already dying and she wouldn't be able to put something like that on hold, even for the Doctor's benefit.

He managed to force his attention back to the nurse, and nodded his understanding as she kept prattling on about how they were doing everything they could. Looking down, he briefly wondered what part of her training taught her to comfort grieving husbands. His vision blurred and he closed his eyes, trying to fight off the tears that threatened to spill. _'Your words mean_ _nothing,'_ he thought as he opened his eyes again, accepting her outstretched hand. _'What comfort could you possibly offer?'_

"Thank you," he said for her benefit, the meaning of his words as hollow as hers had been.

Looking over to Kathryn's room, he hoped the woman would take the hint and leave. Thankfully the warm hand soon slipped from his. She told him she'd come and find him when she had more news and he watched her go back to where she'd be of use. He flinched. Kathryn's hand, in stark contrast to the nurse, had been cold and clammy, and when he'd taken it in his, he'd noted with alarm that she didn't seem to feel his touch. He had watched her go paler by the second, and his concern grew as he'd realised how much blood she'd actually lost. The apprehensive looks of the doctors and nurses had confirmed his suspicions, and he hadn't been able to stop himself from thinking that it seemed to be his lot in life to have his family ripped away from him. _'I'm going to lose her too. Just like I lost the others,'_ he thought, defeated.

It became increasingly difficult to breathe and he tried pressing his fists against his forehead hoping to banish the images of how she'd looked from his mind. He quickly realised that the attempt was futile. The images would never leave, and why should they? After all, if he hadn't been so damned busy, they would've celebrated their wedding anniversary weeks ago. Why had he insisted they'd meet at the restaurant? Why _that_ restaurant? Why eight o'clock? Why hadn't he gone to meet her? The onslaught of questions ate away at him, leaving an all consuming guilt that cut through him like pieces of broken glass. He stood from his seat and started to pace, allowing his remorse, unfounded or not, to envelope him with all its might.

He kept on moving, back and forth, back and forth, hoping it would distract him from thinking. His heart beat like a furious drum, echoing in his ears as he desperately tried to calm his racing mind. His breath came in small, shallow gulps and his entire body hurt. He momentarily contemplated the irony of the situation; that pain like this only came from loving someone like he loved her. He had vehemently ignored his feelings for her the seven years they'd been in the Delta Quadrant. He had pushed away thoughts of her, fervently battling an over-active imagination and a body that reacted to her every move. He had waited till they were home, only to have her taken away from him by a criminal who deserved the wrath of the spirits upon him for the crime he'd committed.

The unmistakable sensation of fury erupted from within.

He hadn't felt rage like this in over a decade, but the feeling was familiar and he welcomed it like a long lost brother. It was overpowering and it quelled his guilt in its wake. It begged him to take action, to roam the streets until he found the perpetrator. To take his life, like the killer had taken his. Kathryn's voice resonated in his mind. He could hear her apologising for leaving the office late as clearly as if she was speaking to him now. He'd laughed and told her he'd known when he married her that he was marrying a workaholic. What he hadn't told her was that he'd secretly booked their table half an hour later than what they'd agreed on. And now some stranger had stabbed his knife into her, ripping her body open and leaving her to bleed to death in an alley way. Chakotay clenched his fists together; the skin on his knuckles turning white, and Kathryn's laughing voice faded away. Instead he heard the killer gasp for air as he imagined his hands closing around the man's throat, squeezing the life out of him. It felt good.

He wondered what she'd seen before the cool metal embedded itself in her chest. He wondered what her thoughts were when she'd felt the blood on her fingertips. He wondered how much it had hurt. He knew the attack must have come out of nowhere. Kathryn wasn't the risk taker she'd once been, and she wouldn't have walked through the alley if she'd suspected anything dangerous. He wondered if she'd been surprised.

During the years they'd been married he'd teased her about her dissipating recklessness on numerous occasions. In the beginning, she'd heatedly argued against it every time he brought it up. Then, late one night, she'd relented and told him as she kissed him lightly, that he was right and that the reason was that she simply had too much to live for. As the faint echo of her words rang in his ears, every thought of death and retribution vanished from his mind.

What was he doing? She wasn't dead yet. Despair, anguish, guilt and fury had been coursing through him, crippling him, and she wasn't even dead yet. She had too much to live for; those had been her exact words. If they were true then, they were just as true now. He ignored the part of him that said he was grasping at straws.

'_Live… She'll live. She wants to. She's strong!' _He could keep on pacing and let thoughts of revenge consume him, or he could focus his energy on Kathryn and her survival. He needed to _believe _that she would live through it and in her ability to beat the odds. That was what he could do for her now. He wasn't helpless after all.

He drew a calming breath and returned to the chair. The claustrophobic feel of the hallway seemed to diminish and he simply sat down to wait. Seconds rapidly ticked into minutes and minutes uncompromisingly turned into hours. Then he heard someone say his name and he forced eyes he didn't know he'd closed, open. It took a moment for him to focus on the person who'd appeared next to him.

"How is she?" he asked warily as he recognised the nurse's face. He rose from the chair and braced himself.

"She's out of surgery," the nurse began, taking his hand.

"And?"

"She had extensive injuries to her liver in addition to the collapsed lung."

"Yes, I know all that." He was getting impatient.

"Her heart stopped twice," the nurse continued. "But we got her back. She's going to be alright." The woman finally smiled.

"She'll be alright?" he repeated, not sure he believed what he was hearing.

The nurse nodded as she let go of his hand. "Yes, we believe so. Your wife is a tough woman." she said.

"You have no idea." he feebly joked, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking.

The nurse chuckled and Chakotay couldn't help himself. He laughed.

"She's incredible," he said, more to himself than the nurse.

"Of that I have no doubt," the woman replied, still smiling. "Do you want to see her?"

"Yes!" Chakotay laughed again, the tension from the last hours slowly evaporating.

"Follow me." The nurse turned and led the way to Kathryn's room. He could hear her saying something else as she opened the door, but he didn't pay attention. All he could focus on was the woman lying in the bed. He walked over to her and grabbed her hand, careful not to tear at any of the wires she was connected to. He sat down, still holding her hand, and felt peace wash over him. She was unconscious, but the hand that had been so cold and clammy the last time he held it, was warm and dry.

TBC


	3. Relief

Relief, he decide, was a sensation that left little to be desired.

He didn't know what felt best. The rhythmic movement of her chest as she evenly drew her breath. The pink shades returning to her cheeks. The way her hand closed around his, even as she slept. The anticipation of her eyes opening, allowing him to tell her once more just how much he loved her.

It hadn't always been like this.

By the end of _Voyager_'s journey, their relationship had started to disintegrate, his anger with her sometimes so powerful that it made his knees buckle and his breath hitch. The infuriation she evoked often left him wanting to scream, but his clenched teeth made it difficult to draw enough air. A biting remark would tend to escape him instead. Now, as he sat by her bedside, he could practically hear their arguments in his head and the sound of her dismissal whenever those particular remarks were uttered. He would turn on his heel, stride out the room, and for a preposterous moment, as if a feat like that could ever be plausible, wish that he'd never fallen in love with her to begin with. It was too hard and she was too difficult. But wishing was pointless, of course. Kathryn had become a permanent fixture in his heart and not even someone like Seven could hope to change that.

He managed a small smile at his own foolishness and marvelled at how much had changed since their final year on Voyager. Looking at her still form, he briefly wondered what he would've done if he'd lost her. His vision blurred suddenly and he closed his eyes, trying to fight off the images of the crimson stains on her cream-coloured dress. _'Open your eyes Kathryn_,' he thought as he looked back down on her. _'Prove to me that you made it!'_

'_Stop being so melodramatic. Of course she made it. She's a Janeway, remember?' _He reprimanded himself and almost chuckled at the thought.

His eyes settled on her upper body and he carefully pushed away the sheets and gown that covered her. His hand gently touched the spot where the knife had entered her chest. He exhaled. Her body was warm and clean, but he noted, with slight apprehension, the size of the scar, knowing that on her left there was another, even bigger one. He brushed his hands over the rough edges and wondered how many treatments it would take for them to fade. Leaning in, he kissed the mark, finding that he hoped she'd leave them be. It was part of her now and, though a reminder of the attack, a part that would always make him remember how rich his life was with her in it. "Thank you," he whispered to whatever deity that chose to listen.

It became increasingly difficult to keep the tears at bay and he tried squeezing his eyes shut to keep them from stinging. He quickly realised that the attempt was futile. Besides, wasn't crying meant to be cathartic? After all, he had just watched his wife bleed to death. He had seen her die. Those were images that wouldn't leave him easily. He should know. He'd watched her die before. He twisted in his seat to take his eyes off her, hoping to recover some control over his emotions.

He sat like that for a moment, thoughts of her flooding his weary mind. He felt his heart beating like a furious drum, echoing in his ears, reminding him with each beat how easily hers could have stilled for good. He drew his breath, willing his body to calm down. Again, the irony of the situation wasn't lost on him; that it was possible to feel this good and hurt so much at the same time. She had survived and for that he was ecstatic. Knowing how easily she might have died caused a pain that just couldn't be described.

Unintentionally, thoughts of _Voyager_ slipped into his mind.

He'd lost count of all the times he'd hurried through the halls, trying to get to sickbay where the EMH was busy healing her broken bones, putting a stop to internal bleedings, reducing swellings, generally making sure that whatever trouble she'd gotten herself into wouldn't be her last. He had been terrified then as well. He'd just been better at fooling himself into believing that the knot in his stomach was just your regular concern for the captain. After their return to the Alpha Quadrant, time passed, and finally, one hectic day, so did the resentment that had grown between them and the lines they'd drawn to keep their relationship from exceeding that of captain and commander. Those lines had protected him on _Voyager_. They were of no help to him now. They were married and even their seven years in the Delta Quadrant, with all that that had entailed, couldn't prepare him for something like this: The inevitable and crippling fear that he would lose her; not his captain or his friend, but his wife. And _that_ had made this incident so much worse than every other near-death experience of hers he'd had to live through.

He glanced back at her torso and the mark the knife had left. It had turned light out and the morning sun shone through the hospital windows with promises of a good day. He knew he had no reason to worry. Her chest continued to move unaided and the monitor bleeped in reassuring accordance. He wasn't losing her, not today. She was still with him and he was holding her warm hand in his. His fingers brushed over the scar one more time before he tucked the gown and her sheets back in place. He smiled and wondered when she'd wake up.

During the months of their debriefings, they'd barely talked; their triumphant return to the Alpha Quadrant initially doing nothing to help their relationship. They were still friends, of sorts, but the growing awkwardness between them seemed to be taking over, and though he'd tried to deny it, he knew that his relationship with Seven wasn't helping matters. The tension had finally exploded into a furious argument which had lasted for hours, culminating in his fist slamming into a table, a death glare to end all death glares, a hoarse voice telling him to get the hell out of her room, and, somewhat unexpectedly, a kiss to shut her up and wipe that damned look of her face.

He should have known that it would take more than a kiss to strangle that glare. When they'd finally broken apart, both breathing hard, it had taken all of his will-power not to take a step back as her eyes locked with his. He remembered thinking that he'd had a good run; that his life had been better than most. Yes, she was going to kill him, but at least he'd kissed her before he met his demise.

"I…" he managed. "I should apologise…" He'd tried to salvage what he could. She was a reasonable woman; maybe she'd just break his legs… Then, before he could stop, a particularly masochistic part of him took over. "But what's the point? I should have kissed you a long time ago." He'd briefly wondered if it would be quick, or if she'd make him suffer.

He'd steeled himself, but he killing blow never came. A flicker of hope ignited as he'd watched her quickly lick at her upper lip. Seconds ticked by and with each passing one, the glare changed. He'd watched, fascinated at the inner struggle clearly displayed in her eyes, before determination settled. They'd moved at the same time, almost crashing into each other as his mouth found hers again.

When they'd pulled apart at last, he'd heard her murmur, "I…"

"You?" he'd prompted, fingers still in her hair.

"Didn't see that coming."

"Me neither."

"It's a dirty way to win an argument," she'd laughed quietly. "I wish I'd thought of it first."

"I wish I'd thought of it sooner," he'd joked, struggling hard to keep himself from ripping her clothes off.

She'd playfully slapped his arm before letting a hand rest on his chest. The familiar gesture had made him smile. "Me and my precious parameters…" she'd said, shaking her head slowly as if she was scolding herself for the stand she'd taken in the Delta Quadrant. "What are we going to do?"

"Talk to Seven," his voice had faltered and he could see she was struggling as well.

The last thing he'd wanted was to hurt the former drone. But every feeling he'd managed to suppress when Kathryn was concerned, had with those two kisses been brought to the surface, and there was no turning back now. It didn't matter if Kathryn wanted him or not. He couldn't continue lying to Seven. Or to himself.

"I love you," he'd said, almost surprising himself with how easily the words had come.

"I know," she'd breathed in return.

"I shouldn't have waited all this time to tell you."

"If you'd told me out there, I don't think I would've listened."

"Yes, you would."

"Oh really?" The humour in her voice had been evident and he'd grinned back.

"Yes. Because you love me too."

She'd pulled him towards her then, hugging him tight, and the words had brushed his ear. "I know."

TBC


	4. Coming back to life

Coming back to life, she decided, was an act that left a lot to be desired.

She couldn't settle on what was most uncomfortable. The ache in her chest when she tried to draw her breath. The screaming protests of her muscles, convincing her that she shouldn't try to move. The burn of the bright light in her eyes as she opened them. The pain in her head, throbbing in unison with the unidentifiable bleeping that kept assaulting her ears.

By the time her muddled mind appreciated that the sound came from a monitor, her head felt like it was about to split open. She wanted to ask for an analgesic, but the dryness in her mouth made it difficult to form the words. A weak, pathetic whimper escaped her instead and she shifted in the bed. She heard her breath hitch as a jet of pain rippled through her, and the sound of that damned monitor unsympathetically telling her that her heart rate had increased. Like the pounding in her chest wasn't enough. She bit her lip and, in a short-lived moment of grandeur, as if she were channelling Q himself, found herself thinking that if she only willed it hard enough, the offending machine would pop out of existence. No such luck, of course. She was anything but a Q and _her_ Q had never seen it fit to grace her with his presence when she could have used him. Her body sank carefully back into its initial position and her eyes closed momentarily.

She managed to suppress a groan at the invading lights when her eyes fluttered open again. Squinting around, she briefly wondered when she'd allowed the EMH to redecorate sickbay. Her memory stirred and she tried to make sense of the fleeting images in her head. _'I'm not in sickbay,'_ she thought and couldn't decide whether that comforted her or not. _'But this is a hospital…'_

'_Yes, of course it's a hospital. Did you think the monitor was just for decoration? You're hooked up to it, for goodness sake!' _She rolled her eyes at herself.

A movement in her peripheral vision made her turn her head and she was almost surprised to see her own hand. As if moving by its own accord, it settled on her chest just under the right breast. Two fingers carefully pressed down. She flinched. The shrill sound of the monitor reverberated through the room. Memories of cream-coloured dresses, silver knives and sandy-blonde hair became tangible, appearing before her in synch with the machine's bleeping, and she realised with sudden clarity that she was in the hospital because someone had stabbed her. Images replaced one another in rapid succession and she struggled to stay calm as she re-lived the moment the knife had entered her body. A desperate voice sounded in her mind, _'Kathryn__**, please**__…'_

It became increasingly difficult to keep the panic at bay and she struggled to sit up, thinking maybe the sudden onset of claustrophobia would disappear. She quickly realised that the attempt was futile. It was only a matter of time, was it not? After all, this was just a short reprieve before death would finally claim its hold on her. She was dying. She _had_ died. Hadn't she? She'd felt the last strands of warmth dissipating as oblivion had overtaken her. She'd sensed the devastation as her body gave up. She'd struggled to tell him goodbye.

She lay like that for a moment, willing herself to calm down. She felt her heart beat like a furious drum, echoing in her ears, the ever present monitor providing her with audible proof of her crumbling control. Tucked somewhere far back, behind the layers of panic, a tiny part of Kathryn couldn't help but find her state slightly ironic. That this immense fear of dying should overpower her here, in the Alpha Quadrant, where the only enemy she fought was the never-ending pile of paperwork that came with the rank of Admiral. Then again, this time around she hadn't faced her mortality alone.

As if on cue, the sound of snoring wafted through the room.

The fog of confusion finally began to lift. She knew that sound. It was soft and familiar and she'd fallen asleep to the thrumming hum for eight years now. She knew exactly where to nudge if it got too loud. On certain nights it could annoy the life out of her, and she had to nudge harder than usual. On most nights, though, it was comforting and lulled her to sleep. And it belonged to him, the one who'd begged her to stay. The one she lived for. She didn't have to search for the source for long. Her body became aware of the extra weight at the same time her eyes locked upon him. She almost laughed with relief. She knew where she was and what had happened. She was alive and she remembered everything. Him. Chakotay. The man sleeping by her side, his head on her abdomen, one arm around her. The frantic bleep of the monitor slowed down as Kathryn finally calmed.

She wondered how long he'd been there. She could see, even as he slept, the faint trace of anxiety etched on his face. The scene was oddly familiar. Even back then, when parameters had to be upheld and Starfleet regulations served as their chaperone, he'd been there, the look on his face impossible to rationalise or explain away as she woke from yet another near death experience. Utter relief would play across his face, revealing the very thing they both strived to hide. That he loved her. That he couldn't live without her. How many times had he watched over her? How many times had she watched over him?

She remembered the first time she'd waited for him like he was waiting for her now. The sense of loss she'd felt when the EMH had told her that her first officer was brain-dead had threatened to knock her feet from under her. She had only known him for a short time, but the thought of having to lead the ship for the next seventy years without him was inconceivable. Even amidst the chaos that had reigned on the ship that day, she'd managed to slip into sickbay, and though she hadn't fallen asleep on him, she'd straightened his mussed-up hair and whispered for him not to leave. When he woke, however, she'd just smiled and welcomed him back. She was better at hiding her emotions than he was.

Looking back, she wondered if she'd already been in love with him then. It seemed so strange now, after years of marriage that she'd once refused to acknowledge her feelings for him. She marvelled at the level of self-delusion her mind had been capable of. The trait, though, had evaporated with the rude awakening his brief affair with Seven had offered. And for that, she was more grateful than she could ever hope to express.

"Chakotay…" she murmured. "Wake up." Sore fingers flexed before making contact, brushing feather-light over his forehead. Her index finger traced the pattern of his tattoo, then further down, stroking over his cheekbone. Her thumb trailed over the outline of his mouth. "Chakotay?"

His grip around her tightened, but he didn't wake. Her fingers moved back up and into his hair. He mumbled her name and stirred. The few seconds that ticked by before his eyes opened felt like an eternity. She watched, fascinated at the range of emotion displayed on his face when he realised she was awake. She'd seen it before and she smiled at him.

"Hey," she whispered as her fingers slipped through his hair again.

"Hey," he whispered back, grabbing her hand.

"I didn't die."

"I can see that." A smile broke out on his face and his hand squeezed hers.

She gingerly lifted their joined hands to her chest, and he moved with it, rising from the chair until he was able to draw her towards him. "How long was I out?" she asked into the crook of his neck.

"Too long," his voice faltered and she could hear he was struggling.

She pulled him closer and told him she was sorry. If she'd only been on time, she wouldn't have put him through this.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he answered, kissing her temple. "You came back."

"How could I not?" she breathed.

"Yes, I am quite a catch, aren't I?" he joked, kissing her again.

"And so full of yourself." They both chuckled.

"I love you."

"I love you too." Kathryn hands moved up his shoulders, cupping his face as he shifted from her. She smiled at him and drew him back towards her, sighing heavily as his lips met hers. The pain in her body was completely gone now, and all she could think was how desperately wrong her thoughts had been when she first woke up.

Coming back to life, she corrected, was an act that irrevocably left _nothing_ to be desired.

The End


End file.
